


Russian Roulette

by LiaS0



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Detectives, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Mystery, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiaS0/pseuds/LiaS0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lupa Lavellan believes only one thing to be true about the law -it is only as good as those that uphold it. For a detective working in the heart of Orlais, it can be a large pill to swallow when you see the law constantly being tossed about for the pleasure of those in power. People like Solas, father of the Fen'Harel crime family, are the very reason that she took up a badge and joined the 9:41 precinct. She won't rest until every mobster like him are behind bars. It can be difficult, though, to put someone away that lines the pockets of the rich with gold. It can also be difficult to find the line between right and wrong when you make it your sworn duty to bring an end to him, no matter the cost. In order to defeat him, Lupa may have to find out just what the price of success truly entails. -AU, modern day Thedas</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

            Felassan was late.

            Lupa Lavellan looked down at the cement floor and decidedly spit. She glanced at her watch, noted the time, and she inwardly cursed.

            “That’s not very ladylike,” one of the men at the bar said, and Lupa grinned. She stuck her unlit cigarette between her lips and looked over, eyeing the offended party.

            “Suppose I’m not much of a lady,” she replied, grabbing the pint in front of her.

            “What are you then?” The man asked, scooting closer. He thought her reply was somewhat flirty, something to invite him to inquire further. Men were like that, Lupa supposed.

            “Something that’s not interested,” Lupa replied, tucking the cigarette behind her ear in order to take a swig of her drink. It wasn’t a real gulp; it was meant to look that way though, and that’s what counted.

            “Not even if I said you was pretty for an elf?” He was Orlesian, and the accent was about as atrocious as they came. Lupa repressed a snort, and she rolled her eyes at the bartender that winced.

            “Not even then,” she murmured, turning around on her barstool. The Black Emporium was a dank, seedy bar, a chain that’d spread across Thedas like a storm. For the right price, a person could enjoy beer, wine, whisky, and just about any other alcohol one could imagine. For an even heftier price, they could enjoy things of a somewhat…shadier variety.

            “See now, I’m a nice man, and I just want to buy you a drink,” the man persisted, and Lupa glanced at him. In truth, she was glancing over his shoulder, but he didn’t know that. Back behind him, sitting against a wall, a guard was posted up by a black, hefty door. It was roped off with something resembling a velvet chain, and when the guard met her eyes, she smiled.

            “Who says I like nice men?” She asked, and the bartender looked away pointedly, towards the guarded door.

            “Bad boys your type?” The man grinned, and she sighed.

            “Mob boys, more like,” she forced a flirtatious smile to her face, and he nodded eagerly.

            “I know me some mob boys. You seem too cute to go after them. They won’t treat you like I would.” No, Lupa supposed they wouldn’t. In truth, anyone that was part of the mob would gladly stick a knife in her ribs, but the drunkard didn’t know that. She glanced at her watch, glanced to the door, then sighed.

            “Such a nice man like yourself shouldn’t go after the likes of me. I’m just an elf, afterall,” Lupa said, and the man was far too drunk to hear the sarcasm.

            “Some of you lot have nice enough ears; yours ain’t too bad. What are you drinking?”

            “Beer,” Lupa nudged the half-full beer. Most of it had been discreetly spit into napkins or onto the ground itself, but The Black Emporium was seedy enough for most people not to mind a bit of spit.

            “Let me get you a bit of the good stuff. I’ll treat you like a lady.” Lupa gritted her teeth, but as the guarded door opened, her desire to maim the human completely fled. Instinct kicked in, and she grabbed him by the shoulder, throwing her shooting arm over it as she fired once, then twice more, disarming the guard and the man that’d walked out of the back room as easily as one exhaled.

            “Maker!” The man dropped into her lap, and Lupa fumbled, tossing his dead weight to the side as the target hollered and dropped their own weapon. The guard slowly lifted his hands, and pandemonium erupted as the occupants of the bar realized that a gun had been fired.

            “On the ground!” Lupa leapt over the drunk and raced to the target, kicking his gun towards her partner who waited, their own weapon lifted.

            "They were late," Leliana said.

            "A mobster can't be on time to his own arrest, I suppose," Lupa replied.

            “You shot me!” The elf threw his hands up, and Lupa grabbed them, slapping cuffs on as easily as one would tie their shoe. Beside her, Leliana kept her gun trained on the guard, his look of utter loathing apparent although he made no move to resist. After a moment, he sunk to his knees, hands up.

            “I shot the gun from your hand, Felassan. Why you had it at the ready is beyond me. You’re under arrest for the murder of Mr. Hawthorne. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do…” the words tumbled from her as more cops poured in, easing drunken occupants from The Black Emporium as though they were herding cats. It was all according to plan.

            “I didn’t kill anyone!” Felassan exclaimed, and the look of utter satisfaction that Lupa shared with Leliana would keep her warm for the weeks to come.

            “Tell it to the judge,” Lupa replied, hauling him to his feet. Back behind him, the guard glared.

            “Fen’Harel isn’t going to like this,” he said conversationally.

            “He can come too! I’ve been meaning to have a word with him.” Lupa led the guilty party towards the exit of the bar, and cowering by a barstool, she spied the drunk human that’d pathetically tried to hit on her.

            “Maybe next time,” she suggested. The man gave a start, then promptly fainted.

* * *

 

            It wasn’t easy to put someone away for murder. It was even more difficult when that someone belonged to House Fen’Harel.

            “Can you confirm that the elf, Tamlen, was in the room with you at the time of the murder?”

            “N-no…”                                                                              

            “Can you confirm that his alleged accomplice, Felassan of the Fen’Harel family, was in the room at the time of the murder?” The defense attorney cast his gaze about the room, a small smirk underneath a neatly trimmed beard.

            “Yes! I saw him! I saw Felassan,” the witness tossed a finger towards the elf in question, “with that thug when he shot my husband!” To the left, Lupa Lavellan nodded slightly, sitting on the edge of her seat. It was day two of court for the case of the DA vs Felassan of the Fen’Harel family, and so far things were going well.

            “Mrs. Hawthorne, are you currently on any prescription medications?”

            “I…that is…” her voice faltered.

            “Remember that you are on the stand, Mrs. Hawthorne,” the defense attorney reminded her.

            “I am taking Xanax…currently. With an elf root supplement.” Her watery eyes looked to the judge, her lips trembling before she pressed them together tightly.

            “Do you recall taking your medication that night?”

            “I did as prescribed,”

            “Is alcohol also part of the prescription?”

            “…What?”

            “Do you recall having several glasses of wine that night after taking your medication?” Lupa tensed. Her partner drummed dull nails on the table, and at a subtle nudge from Lupa, Leliana stilled and cast her dark gaze to the witness stand.

            “What is this?” Lupa whispered to her.

            “A ruse,” Leliana replied.

            “I didn’t have any wine that night,” the witness said.

            “For the court, your honor,” the defense attorney said, withdrawing a stack of pictures and documents, “I have here an analysis from the lab showing two wine glasses recovered at the scene of the crime. One has the DNA of her late husband, Mr. Hawthorne, while one holds the DNA of Mrs. Hawthorne.”

            “This is evidence being presented without the prosecution’s knowledge, your honor.” The prosecuting attorney, a young upstart from the DA, stood and glowered.

            “I’ll allow it. Let me see the documents?” The judge held her hand out, accepting the stack of files from the defense attorney. “Explain this, Erimond.”

            “Felassan of the Fen’Harel family has been in several small commercials as of late, your honor. These documents confirm that Mrs. Hawthorne ingested at least one full glass of wine with her Xanax on the night of her husband’s death. She has supposed, hearing his voice, that he was in the room at the time of the murder. But with this evidence, I move that we remove this witness on the grounds that, due to her intoxicated state, she can’t verify whether or not Felassan was actually there. In actuality, the television was on at the time of the murder, as well as after, when she called the police. Due to her intoxication, it is far more probable that she heard his voice on the television, and the hazardous use of her medication made her think otherwise.”

            “Prosecution?” Judge Vivienne de Fer was a fair woman, although a harsh one. The prosecutor stood with a stiff back and a grim expression. Behind her, Lupa felt her blood still, then freeze. Just behind them, the entire room was as silent as the grave, waiting with baited breath to see what would happen. It wasn’t often that a member of the Fen’Harel family was brought to trial. Granted, it wasn’t often that a member of the Fen’Harel family left witnesses.

            “I move for a recess, your honor, in order to view the evidence and have the DNA cross-examined,” the prosecutor said firmly. Judge de Fer thought about it for a moment, eyeing the documents, before she nodded.

            “I’ll allow it. We will convene again tomorrow at precisely 9:00 A.M. to continue with the witness, Mrs. Hawthorne. Until then,” the judge handed the folder back to a smug Erimond, “I call a recess.” She struck the gavel, and it felt like Lupa had been whacked alongside the head. Around them, feet shuffled and scuffed, soft murmurs filling the air like the hiss of wasps. Seething in her seat, her blood beginning to boil, Lupa Lavellan of Police Precinct 9:41 did her best to hold herself completely still. Beside her, Leliana gathered her things, humming under her breath.

            “That could have gone better,” Leliana said lightly.

            “Better?” Lupa hissed, teeth gritted.

            “It looks like we’ll need to see who was bribed to forge the DNA.” Leliana glanced up as Mrs. Hawthorne scurried over to them, her eyes shining with tears.

            “I didn’t drink! I don’t drink!” She whispered, and Lupa stood, grabbing her arm as gently as she was able.

            “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hawthorne,” she said, glancing to the side where the defense attorneys gathered their things, arrogance radiating from them. Seated at the table, dressed as posh and suave as was socially acceptable, Felassan of the Fen’Harel family folded his arms and preened.

            “I don’t know what they’re talking about! I saw him! I saw-“

            “We’re going to get to the bottom of this, alright dear?” Leliana smiled and spoke over the older woman, cutting off her speech effectively. “We’re going to have good friends of ours escort you home until we can handle this. Is that alright with you?”

            “They’re going to get away with this, aren’t they? My husband wouldn’t help their ‘efforts’, and they’re not going to get punished,” Mrs. Hawthorne closed her eyes as s few tears managed to escape, and when Cullen Rutherford of Precinct 9:41 led her away, he allowed the woman to lean on his arm.

            “They’re going to kill her if we’re not careful,” Lupa said, and Leliana smiled pleasantly at someone across the room. If she was troubled, she didn’t show it.

            “We can discuss that later, my dear partner. Right now, I think a drink would do you wonders.” Leliana glanced at the prosecuting attorney and nodded decidedly. “I think we could all use a drink after this.”

            “Now isn’t the time to drink,” Lupa grouched.

            “I could use a drink,” the prosecutor, Charlie Trevelyan, didn’t glance up from gathering her things. The exhaustion was clear in her voice though, and Leliana nodded.

            “See?”

            “How can you think about alcohol at a time like this?” Lupa snapped.

            “Because I don’t run myself into the ground. I like to take things one step at a time while thinking four steps ahead. Now isn’t the time to show our enemies we’re flustered. Come now, we have witnesses.” Leliana was often calm in the face of adversity. That’s what made her such a valuable partner, in truth. After four years together, Lupa trusted Leliana’s tact far better than she trusted her own mouth.

Lupa followed her gaze to the back of the room where a memorable, familiar man watched, surrounded by at least twelve guards of various skills. It wasn’t his guards that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, though. Even without guards, Solas of the Fen’Harel mob was as formidable as a storm.

            “He has some nerve to come and watch this personally,” Lupa said, gathering her pack and slinging it over her shoulder. Leliana laughed and patted her on the shoulder, nudging her towards the exit.

            “Felassan is one of his high-ranking family members. His being here means that he has a lot to lose if this doesn’t pan out in his favor.”

            Lupa would have objected, but as they passed by clamoring, eager citizens, she zipped her lip and stalked past. As they neared the back of the courtroom, the scent of herbs and a sharp cologne assaulted her, and the eyes of a pack of eager dogs watched.

            At the center of them stood Solas, father of House Fen’Harel –the strongest and most terrifying mob of Thedas.

            “Miss Lavellan, a stunning performance today.” Fen’Harel was a soft-spoken man, but his voice always carried. Lupa twitched, then turned to stare at the mobster that stood a casual confidence that hinted at his assurance of success. The men and women surrounding him parted, giving her a clear view of the bald, arrogant bastard himself. He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets, shifting in what had to be hand-made, tailored shoes. He wasn’t a tall elf, but his shoulders were broad. His jaw and cheekbones were lethal in the piss-poor lighting in the courtroom, and he tilted his head to observe them coolly.

            “Mr. Fen’Harel, always a pleasure,” Leliana said coolly, a hand on Lupa’s elbow to keep her from lunging. Solas smiled, a distinct twitch of the lip.

            “Please, Miss Nightingale; the two of you are familiar enough with me and my family to call me Solas. Didn’t Miss Lavellan tell you I preferred it?” His three-piece suit was impeccable with nary a thread out of place. His cool grey eyes casually flicked to the front of the courtroom where Felassan sat, waiting on the guards to escort him out of the room.

            “We’re anything if not polite.” Leliana said. Lupa would have replied, but the taste of blood was in her mouth, and she wasn’t quite sure if she could be polite enough to utter even a dismissal.

            “It is a shame, I think, for these proceedings. I do hope Mrs. Hawthorne is well enough to attend tomorrow.” He glanced to Lupa and winked. “With her misuse of medications, who knows what will happen?”

            “Bastard,” Lupa ground out between clenched teeth.

            “Lupa,” Leliana admonished quietly, but Solas merely laughed, his guards and cohorts joining in like it was the funniest joke they’d ever had the pleasure to hear. That was the problem with the Fen’Harel family. They knew they were untouchable. They knew they would always win. Everything was a joke to them, from the death of one mere underling to the curse of a cop that couldn’t catch a break.

            “I do enjoy these conversations, Miss Lavellan. We should sit down sometime for lunch or dinner; my treat.”

            “Lupa,” Leliana warned, and Lupa had enough grace to listen. With one last withering glower, she stalked from the courtroom, Leliana fast on her heels. The doors shut behind them, the rancorous laughter echoing out from the cracks of the doors.

            _Bam!_

            Without thought, she punched the wall, pleased with the pain that radiated through her bones and veins. It felt good to hurt something, to have some sort of small victory in the wake of so much failure. Leliana waited patiently, folding her arms.

            “Just once!” Lupa exclaimed, turning to her, “Just once I’d like to win against him!”

            “As would I, but letting them see your emotions isn’t the way to do it,” Leliana replied.

            “It doesn’t matter that we have the first solid witness in months; they’re going to discredit her, and the case will be tossed!”

            “Yes, but punching walls won’t help.” Leliana walked down the hall, and Lupa begrudgingly followed. The sporadic parties in the courthouse barely paid them a second glance, but Lupa swore she could feel the dark stare of the damned mobster as they took a side hall to avoid the media fiasco that was surely waiting outside.

            “They’ve got a rat in the labs,” Lupa groused.

            “So we flush the rat out.” Leliana opened the door for Lupa, and she stalked through it, heading into the alleyway that would lead to their side-street parking. In the heart of Orlais, Val-Royeaux, if you didn’t know where to park, you paid a decent fortune.

            “They kill those that are good; they buy out those that are weak. Is there anything the Fen’Harel family doesn’t have their hands in?” Lupa threw herself into the passenger seat of their car, and Leliana climbed into the driver’s side. Without thinking, Lupa withdrew a cigarette from her purse and lit it, taking a long, vengeful drag.

            “I think they’ve left the church well alone, but I believe that’s because Solas doesn’t like the Chantry.” Leliana unrolled the window for Lupa, and she let her hand rest on the edge, staring at the tobacco that quietly crackled at the heat.

            “How are we going to beat him, Leliana?” Lupa asked morosely. As they pulled into the bustling traffic of the city, she stared at the laughing, eager faces, and she spied the media that huddled at the steps of the courthouse like vultures. Just at the top of the steps, Solas and his brood worked their way down. She pretended that she could see his overly confidant, self-righteous expression from the distance. She idly flicked ash from the cigarette and flipped him the bird.

            “There are ways that we could beat him, but you’ve already put your foot down.”

            “We’re not going to stoop to his level.” Lupa changed the station on the radio, fumbling with the dials.

            “It’s not stooping to his level. It’s beating him at his own game.” Leliana slapped her hand away and changed it back to the upbeat pop music. As it was, the sound grated on Lupa’s nerves.

            “That’s not how the law works.”

            “Then we’ll never beat him. But we’ve had this conversation before. Come; let’s get a drink. You’ll drive yourself mad if you continue to worry about this.”

            Lupa would continue to worry about it, though. She passed calloused fingers along the swooping Dalish tattoos on her cheek, and although they would later share pints and plan to bring Solas of the Fen’Harel family to justice, it would be his face that would keep her up late in the night, haunting her with the way that he was always just out of her reach.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

            The phone rang at precisely 3:15 A.M. There was a time –a time before Lupa was transferred to Precinct 9:41 –that she would have ignored the call and gone back to sleep. When one was a detective working a task force to bring down organized crime though, one didn’t have the luxury of ignoring phone calls. No one called that early for doughnuts, after all. She groggily answered the phone, and thirty minutes later she found herself in a modest apartment on the outskirts of the city, staring down at a body. No, no, she corrected herself. Not _a_ body. _The_ body. The only body that mattered at the moment.

            “Three hours ago, at best.” Mrs. Hawthorne didn’t look like she’d died three hours ago. Her odd eyes were ancient, the lines in her face that of a crone. Vomit spilled from her mouth and across the cheap linoleum –the only true testament to a fresh corpse. That, and she hadn’t yet gained the foul stench of a corpse that would set in sooner or later.

            “What have you got for me so far?” Lupa crouched down beside the Qunari and examined the late Mrs. Hawthorne’s slack mouth.

            “Asphyxiation from her own vomit. It looks like an overdose.” The examiner made a note of the color of the liquid on a small notepad, his expression severe. Granted, his expression was often severe. The Qunari’s horns were large and imposing, giving him a permanent etch deep on his forehead as though he were in deep concentration.

            “Overdose?” Lupa looked about the room and frowned.

            “She took all but Saturday’s dose of medicine, and she polished off a bottle of wine.” He nodded to the table where the items in question sat innocently. The empty bottle lay on its side beside a small pill dispenser and an empty wine glass. Peach lipstick lined one side, smudged but clearly matching the lipstick on Mrs. Hawthorne’s lips.

            “You think she did this on purpose?” Lupa rubbed her stomach as it twinged, and she resisted the urge to grab a cigarette from the pack in her bag.

            “You don’t accidentally take all of your medication at once. That’s why they stick it in daily dispensers, detective.”

            “Mrs. Hawthorne wasn’t a drinker,” Lupa murmured. She glanced down at the eyes that held a lifetime, and she frowned.

            “She’s not no more, that’s for sure. You can’t walk this kind of thing off,” Trentin replied.

            Lupa ignored his dark remark and stood, walking over to the table to study it. The items were placed naturally, a testament to a calm act of suicide. The apartment itself was mostly bare, apart from two couches, a coffee table and a TV. It was meant to be sparse; the place was merely to house witnesses whose lives were potentially in danger for testifying. Tossed haphazardly to the side, Mrs. Hawthorne’s purse lay dejectedly underneath the cracked windowpane.

            “The window’s been forced,” Lupa said, bending down to study the fresh chips in the wood.

            “So’s every other window in Val-Royeaux that doesn’t have a fence around the property,” Tretin retorted. He busied himself with notes, inching around the corpse with surprising delicacy despite his large bulk. Outside of the window and four flights down, Leliana was busy with a few other task force members, roping off the area and speaking with ‘witnesses’. Witnesses. As though a ‘suicide’ would have witnesses.

            “I temporary safehouse is checked before we put key witnesses there. This is new.” Lupa snapped a photo of it on her phone.

            “So you, what,” Trentin sat up and appraised her, crouched over Mrs. Hawthorne’s corpse, “think that someone forced her to kill herself?”

            “I don’t rule anything out when a key witness kills herself in the middle of a trial, Trentin.”

            “She saw her husband murdered, so she kills herself in her grief. It seems pretty open and shut to me.” He shrugged, and maybe it was the nonchalant way that he dismissed the idea of anything else that made Lupa study him so intently. He avoided her eyes, so she moved about the room, taking everything in slowly.

            “How long have you worked in Val-Royeaux, Trentin?”

            “About three months, I think.”

            “You’ve seen a lot for only three months.” Lupa examined a scuff on the wall near the bedroom door, and she snapped another photo idly.

            “That’s why we’re all in Val-Royeaux, isn’t it? No one comes here unless they’re looking for a bit of the action.” He laughed, a lighthearted sound that grated on her nerves, given the situation. A lot of examiners were like that, though. One had to be a bit odd to mess around with dead bodies for fun.

            “That’s true,” she allowed.

            “I mean, you were all the way over in the Free Marches first, right? Everyone in the precinct knows about _you_.” Yes, it was his tone that set her on her guard. Lupa glanced over at him as he stood and jotted a few notes down.

            “Do you want me to take her down?” He asked.

            “Leave her for the moment. I want to look around first.” Trentin nodded and grabbed his pack, walking out with steady, heavy footfalls. Once his steps faded down the hall, Lupa pulled her phone from her pocket and dialed a number, walking over to stand beside Mrs. Hawthorne’s corpse. She had to wait several rings before an irritated, half-asleep voice answered, a yawn punctuating his irritated greeting.

            “Do you know how ghastly you must be to wake me at this Maker-less hour?”

            “I’m honored that you even answered,” Lupa replied with a dry laugh.

            “As you should. As wonderful as I may appear, even I need my beauty rest.”

            “We’ve got a body that needs examined.”

            “As usual, yes?”

            “I don’t trust anyone but you to get in there and nose around a bit.”

            “There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere, but I’m too tired to think of it at the moment.” Another yawn, this one far more dramatic.

            “I’ll buy you breakfast?” Lupa offered.

            “Make it drinks after the job is done and you have yourself a deal.”

            “Fine,” Lupa nodded even though he couldn’t see.

            “You really are the only person I’d answer a call from at –Andraste’s pantsuit, you called me at 4:32 in the _morning_?”

            “I appreciate your commitment to our work, Dorian.”

            “I appreciate my sleep, you know.”

            “You’re the best?”

            “I really am.” Dorian hung up, and Lupa looked down at the corpse, noting the smeared, sloppy lipstick. Saturday. If she was going to kill herself, why leave Saturday’s dose untouched? Why risk it and leave some medicine untouched? Saturday wasn’t the next day, nor was it the day before –what was so special about four days from now?

            The clean-up crew arrived, and Lupa left them to their work, stepping around the equipment and heading down the rickety stairs that led to the bottom floor. When she reached Leliana, she was wordlessly presented with a Styrofoam coffee cup, which was accepted gratefully.

            “They’re calling it a suicide,” Leliana said. Lupa took a large gulp of the coffee and bit back a wince at the contents.

            “You put whipped cream in my coffee.”

            “Something sweet to fix your sour expression.”

            “Trentin is a Qunari.” Lupa nodded over to Trentin, the Qunari in question busying himself with putting his things in the back of one of the vans.

            “Yes, and Fen’Harel owns most of the Qunari through various business deals.” Leliana hmm’d as Lupa warmed her hands on the hot cup.

            “So he’s been bought off.”

            “Apparently,” Leliana watched the Qunari fill out a few papers, her expression inscrutable. Even in the early morning hours, she was as put together as one could ever hope to be. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and considered the other cops that milled about.

            “I liked Trentin,” Lupa sighed.

            “We all liked Trentin,” Leliana replied, “We also liked Thomas, Brenda, Garrett, and Mieran.”

            “Coincidentally, all of which were the first to respond to the scene,” Lupa pointed out.

            “There are no coincidences,” Leliana said gravely.

            “I hate whipped cream in my coffee,” Lupa whined.

            “Did you call Dorian?” Leliana smiled as Lupa took a decisive, angry sip of her coffee.

            “Of course I did. I owe him drinks for it.”

            “He does like his beauty sleep,” Leliana said. “Do you want to call Charlie, or shall I?”

            “You can call her. She needs to get ahold of Judge de Fer so that we can discuss how to proceed.”

            “At least Charlie is somewhat more of a morning person,” Leliana commented. “Judge de Fer, I’m not so sure.”

            “Vivienne isn’t going to like this. It’s sloppy.” Lupa forced herself to all but chug the contents of the cup, willing the taste to not be so horrid.

            “Yes, it’s difficult to examine a witness when they kill themselves,” Leliana agreed.

            “If Mrs. Hawthorne committed suicide, then I’m actually a human,” Lupa growled.

            “Shall I get that in writing?” Leliana teased, ducking under the police tape.

            “I’ll put it at the bottom of my report.” Something caught Lupa’s eye as they stepped away from the police tape, and it wasn’t a suspect. It was one of the officers, a young, morose boy that leaned against the brick wall and looked close to tears. She nudged Leliana and nodded to him.

            “What’s Cole doing here?”

            “He was the officer on duty. He’s not taking it well.” Leliana pulled open her phone and stepped away to call Charlie Trevelyan, leaving Lupa standing at an awkward distance between the fresh, young cop.

            “I was making my rounds when I found her.” Cole glanced up, as though he could sense Lupa’s probing stare. Lupa hesitated, then crossed the distance to him so that he didn’t have to raise his voice.

            “It was quick, then,” Lupa observed.

            “I approved the apartment according to the list we check, and she stepped in. At midnight I did my rounds, and when I returned, she was dead.” Cole wasn’t the easiest of people to talk to. He had a long face, a long nose, and large, watery eyes. When he spoke, he had a way of staring far too intently, and Lupa found herself shifting under his gaze.

            “How long did your rounds take?”

            “Thirty minutes, as it takes anyone.” He looked up at the sky and sniffed delicately. “It happened so quickly.”

            “Cole, did the two of you stop for groceries on the way to the apartment?” Lupa glanced over at the rest of the response team, noting how they kept sneaking glances at her.

            “She wanted to stop for tissues, but I assured her that there were tissues at the safe house.”

            “You didn’t stop for wine or anything else, though,” Lupa clarified.

            “We didn’t.” Cole looked back to her, and his gaze pierced her. “She said she wanted to sleep, so she napped for most of the afternoon. She woke, ate a TV dinner, and she slept once more. On the couch, not on the bed. I think she felt that the bed had too much space for only one person.”

            “Was she wearing any makeup?” Lupa glanced to Leliana, her partner still on the phone with Charlie.

            “Makeup?”

            “Was she wearing any lipstick?”

            “Mauve,” Cole said dreamily. “It was the perfect color for her skin tone. She took it off before her first nap.”

            “Thank you, Cole. You have a sharp mind. This wasn’t your fault; you know that, right?” Lupa would have reached out to clasp his shoulder, but she wasn’t much the touching type.

            “It hurts to think that I was only five minutes away. I should have known.” He looked at the ground, and she could have sworn that in the dim streetlight, she saw his bottom lip tremble.

            “We’re cops, not spirits. We can’t know _everything_ that’s going to happen.” She smiled thinly, but it was a bleak smile. “Go fill out your report and go home, alright? Get some rest.”

            “I’ll rest when she does.” The look in his eyes was chilling, and he headed over to his car, climbing into the driver’s side with a lanky, disjointed sort of movement. Lupa glanced to the rest of the crime scene workers, met their sly gazes, then finished off her awful coffee and walked over to Leliana.

            “Where to?”

            “Charlie wants to meet up and go over the case before we disturb Judge de Fer’s sleep.” Leliana headed over to their car and unlocked it, climbing in. The moment they were away from the crime scene, Lupa snagged a cigarette and lit it, unrolling the window to let the wet morning air slap her in the face. It was almost as good of a wakeup as the coffee.

            “I’ll disturb Dorian’s sleep easily. Viv is not the sort of woman you wake up early.”

            “My thoughts precisely, partner,” Leliana replied.

* * *

 

            “My dear, you reek of cloves.” Vivienne de Fer looked immaculate, from her perfectly arched brow to her striking pantsuit that emphasized her sleek figure. She didn’t look like she’d been woken early, nor did she look like the situation warranted any sort of hassle. She did not lounge or lean in her chair the way other judges did. Rather, she sat with an erectness that spoke of class and dignity –Lupa knew personally that she sat that way naturally, not from practice. Lupa pushed back an errant strand of hair, and she shrugged.

            “We were up a little early, your honor.”

            “Smoking is an awful habit, you know. I’m sure Detective Nightingale has told you such.” Vivienne glanced to Leliana who smiled wryly.

            “Many times, your honor,” Leliana agreed.

            “It’s not because of cloves we’re here, though. The intervention on her behalf can wait,” Charlie said dismissively. Charlie was as well put-together as could be expected. There were small bags under her eyes, her bun was half-hazard, but her eyes were sharp. She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but Lupa had it on good authority that she had at least three ‘5-Hour Energy’ bottles stuffed into her purse. She didn’t think anyone knew about her habit of downing them at alarming rates, and Lupa wasn’t going to be the one to rat her out. Not when her only way of functioning without murdering a man was continuous doses of coffee and half a pack of cigarettes a day.

            “It seems that you have a problem on your hands regarding a certain key witness.” Vivienne shifted in her chair, a purposeful move to appear dismissive. In truth, Lupa could see her jaw clench, a sign of her annoyance. If anyone ever doubted Vivienne’s passions, it was only because her strict adherence to protocol kept her from voicing outrage.

            “Yes, she’s dead,” Lupa said bluntly. Vivienne’s eyebrow twitched, but her face gave nothing away.

            “And you’re going to tell me that it’s not because of the alcohol?”

            “I’m telling you that it was murder.” Lupa folded her arms across her chest, ignoring the pointed glance Leliana gave her.

            “Who killed her? If you’re accusing someone, I had better see the paperwork.”

            “We’ve only just received word, your honor. It appears to be a suicide, but there are certain pieces of evidence that suggest otherwise.”

            “We can’t work in suggestions, darling. This isn’t the Empress and her royal court dabbling about. Law requires far more than a gentle whisper of suspicion,” Vivienne said lightly.

            “We need more time. If we can prove foul play, then it will only strengthen our case against Felassan,” Leliana urged.

            “Then the defense attorney, Erimond, will need more time to build his own case against your hasty rebuttal. If we paused every single time there was a bump in the road, then we’d never reach a true decision,” Vivienne said coolly. “As much as I hate to do this, we will meet against in four hours and you had better have something convincing.”

            “Our key witness was just murdered, Viv!” Lupa exclaimed.

            “Your key witness has just died. Until proven otherwise, wasn’t a murder.”

* * *

 

            “Well, it is most certainly murder.” Dr. Dorian Pavus was a sharply dressed man, even when working amongst the dead. Underneath his scrubs, Lupa saw the distinct cut of a perfectly fitted suit, and she suppressed the urge to joke about it. If there was one thing the man prided himself on, it was the ability to remove a spleen and have it on ice in under a minute. If there was one other thing he prided himself on, it was dressing like a gentleman while doing so.

            “Not a suicide?” Lupa scooted her rolling chair over to the slab of metal that housed Mrs. Hawthorne’s corpse. Dorian peered over at her and nodded, sniffing delicately.

            “For one, do you see the bruising on the inside of her lips? Someone forced something into her mouth.” He gestured to the mouth, motioning for his assistant to snap a photo. The boy was a young upstart, Ferelden by the looks of his shaggy hair and the set of his jaw.

             “A bottle of wine, perhaps?” Lupa suggested. Dorian motioned to his assistant who busied himself with jotting down Dorian’s observations.

            “Not while I’m working, Lupa, you know I try to be focused when I’m on the job,” Dorian replied, smiling.

            “After, then. I’ve got a nice bottle of Pinot Noir that needs tasted by someone that actually knows what they’re talking about when someone starts talking about the year and the fermenting process. In the meantime, though; your thoughts?”

            “We could compare the bottle to the bruising to be sure, but it’s a safe guess. Also, to overdose and die in such a short amount of time is highly questionable. Officer Cole was only gone for about what, thirty minutes? To douse her Xanax with an entire bottle of wine is a bit of a stretch for a middle aged woman. There’s something so decidedly time-consuming when dealing with suicide.”

            “There was a wine glass there, too.” Lupa nodded in agreement.

            “Yes, and I find it difficult to believe that if she was truly trying to off herself, she’d trouble herself with the ceremony of pouring each glass of wine and chugging it; especially if time was of the essence.”

            “I knew it,” Lupa muttered, swiping a quick text to Leliana. Dorian moved about the slab of metal and noted a few more things, peering down from the bright light of the examination room. All of the lights were like that, although some towards the end flickered with the mild threat of going out completely. Budget cuts across the board made it difficult to bother with something like lighting.

            “There is minute bruising around the mouth as well -as though someone held a hand over her mouth and jerked her about,” he murmured, bending close to Mrs. Hawthorne’s mouth.

            “Any cuts or nicks to suggest a knife to her neck?”

            “No, but I did see two minor cuts along the back, between the shoulder blades. It was clear through her shirt, the poor thing.”

            “She was held at knife-point, then. I want an examination of her stomach contents if it’s at all possible.”

            “That will take a short while, but I can get them to you soon enough.” Dorian stepped away from the corpse and folded his arms, quirking his lip. “Dazzled?”

            “I always am,” Lupa said, grinning.

            “You don’t do my ego very well, agreeing with me when I flatter myself.”

            “Well, I have always said that your skill with dead bodies is impeccable.”

            “It’s the living that I have trouble communicating with, yes.” He sniffed, his well-groomed moustache twitching. “Any other examiner could have said the same, you know. This wasn’t some form of Sherlock deductions that I made; although I appreciate you calling.”

            Lupa glanced to the other examiner that continued jotting notes even though Dorian had stopped speaking. He paused when their conversation didn’t continue, and his youthful face scrunched innocently.

            “Blanche, do be a dear and run that report to my desk? I’ll finish it.” Dorian waved a hand, and the worker scurried off, presumably towards Dorian’s office. When he left, he cast a glance back at Lupa that set her on edge.

            “Every single worker apart from myself, Leliana, and Cole serve the Fen’Harel family. I had to be sure that the medical report wasn’t screwed with,” Lupa said once the doors were closed. Dorian nodded knowingly, leaning against the metal as though he and Mrs. Hawthorne were the best of friends.

            “You can’t count out Cole, you know. He used to be part of that rabble.”

            “He came here seeking a fresh start doing what’s right. He’s been invaluable in his service to the precinct,” Lupa defended fiercely.

            “You never know with those, though. He’s doing his honorable part -for now. There might come a time that he doesn’t, though, and don’t be surprised when I say, ‘I told you so.’”

            “Fen’Harel hasn’t bought him off. He’s taking this prettty hard.”

            “Aren’t we all?” Dorian asked. “Felassan is one of his top men. It’s unfortunate, but are you at all surprised that something snagged in the grand plan? When has a hit against the mob gone smoothly?”

            “I’m not surprised, but…” Lupa raked her hands through her tangled hair, sighing. She needed a smoke. “We’re so close, Dorian. We’re so close that I can taste it.”

            “Four years now you’ve been chasing him, and you’re about to get a bite of the pie. I know the feeling.” Dorian nodded, noting her grim expression.

            “Four years, and I’m going to get that rat bastard to face justice. You’ve been here since the beginning, Dorian. I want you to be part of that success just as much as I am.”

            “Those were the good old days, weren’t they? You, the fresh-faced Dalish, ready to tackle a sinking city with your nomadic ways and slew of curses that turned the D.A’s ears red,”

            “You, the Tevinter that everyone cursed until they realized they were only jealous that you were smarter than they were.” Lupa grinned. “You took top marks in all of your classes, and you were drunk for half of them.”

            “We were so young.” Dorian sighed, stroking his moustache. “I’ve gained wrinkles.”

            “There’s a remedy for that.” Lupa said conversationally, standing up. “If you’re vain enough, The Black Emporium has just what you need.”

            “Hah,” Dorian snorted, turning back to the corpse. “I don’t need a magical remedy that will make my hair fall out; thank you very much.”

            “It’s an offer, all the same. I’ve got it in good with Felassan, now. He can hook you up.”

            “Put in a good word, will you? You’re seeing him in thirty minutes, after all.”

            “I’ll let you know what he says!” She walked out of the room, the air in the hallway much warmer since it wasn’t about keeping the bodies from rotting. Her cold fingers scrolled through her apps, her thumb pausing on the calendar. Saturday. What was going on, on Saturday? She climbed the steps two at a time to the main hallway, and her brow furrowed in confusion. Lupa didn’t believe in coincidences. Coincidences were dropping a melon in the grocery store and incidentally finding your long lost high school mate in the process. Coincidences weren’t a murder with a day’s worth of pills left behind. Just what was the sign, though? What was Lupa missing?


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

            Lupa stared down at her palm, and she seriously considered putting her cigarette out on it. After a moment of fierce deliberation, she smushed it in the ashtray, and she took a shot, pleased with the way that it burned.

            “Rough day?” Flissa was an excellent bartender and an even better listener. Lupa glanced up from a small stack of reports she’d taken with her, and she grunted something vaguely resembling an affirmative.

            “You could say that,” Lupa replied when she realized that she hadn’t actually given an answer.

            “Dad’s coffee, on the house.” Flissa busied herself with mixing the Bailey’s into the coffee, and she slid it over, smiling sympathetically.

            “I don’t see how it’s called dad’s coffee, seeing as how it’s mostly single adults like me downing shit like this,” Lupa said, sipping it. The cool Bailey’s softened the hot coffee, and she nodded in satisfaction. A wake-up and a relaxer, stirred into one somewhat questionable drink.

            “Not quite sure either, but the name stuck. I heard the news.” It was quiet at The Singing Maiden, a late afternoon lull before the evening set in. Lupa preferred it that way. Her face and name had been in the news too much as of late, and she didn’t like the idea of rubberneckers.

            “Everyone heard the news,” Lupa murmured, glancing at the gods-awful newspaper that lurked on the bar beside her. Felassan was a dream boat on the cover, his flashing smile and Dalish markings prompting violence of the most extreme kind. Lupa glowered and turned away, taking another gulp of coffee and rubbing her own markings with her free hand.

            “Do you want to talk about it?” Flissa offered. She was a sweet girl –Leliana’s recommendation as one of the finest barkeeps that Orlais would ever see. She was also one of the most reliable, since she was one of the few and rare that Fen’Harel hadn’t bought out.

            “Not much to say that the writers haven’t already gotten their hands on.” Lupa reached over and snagged the newspaper, clearing her throat. “According to this, ‘Police are baffled at the turn of events that left Felassan of the Fen’Harel Family walking free from accusations of murder. What prompted this loss of evidence? Rather, what prompted the police to try and use a drunk and alleged suicide-risk to be their star witness? Is this a sign of things to come from Precinct 9:41? A reliable source assured us of the precinct’s dedication to justice, but when we attempted to take a statement from Detective Lavellan, she kindly saw us out of the door with her boot.’”

            “Did you really boot them out?” Flissa snickered.

            “It’s rubbish is what it is,” Lupa snarled, lighting another cigarette. Bad habit. She considered stopping once, when the stress hadn’t kept her awake at all hours of the night. Now though, Leliana and Dorian were all that truly kept her from going absolutely bonkers.

            “Most media is rubbish. That’s why I take my information directly from the source.”

            “You’re one of the few, you know.” Lupa smiled wryly.

            “I suppose you could call it special privileges, but you don’t hear me complaining. I’d rather hear an unbiased opinion,” Flissa replied. Lupa laughed, but it was a coughing sort of laugh –the kind that made people wonder if it was intentional or the sign of an oncoming flu.

“I can’t say I’m an unbiased opinion; in fact, I’d say I’m about as bias as you can get.” Flissa laughed and wiped down the bar, and when more patrons walked in, Lupa saw her coffee, her files, her newspaper, and her sour attitude into a corner where she wouldn’t be bothered. The cook delivered a sandwich on the house, and she bit into it with far too much aggression. She truly needed an outlet for her anger.

            “Rubbish,” she repeated, dragging her finger along the case file. Not enough sufficient evidence to convict –or so the jury said. She couldn’t argue that, not when the only solid bit that they had was in a meat locker to stay cool. At least she could prove that Mrs. Hawthorne had been murdered –what good did that do, though, when Felassan walked free?

            The tavern filled up slowly but surely, and Lupa found solace in the small little corner that she often skulked in during the evening. There were enough regulars to recognize a sour-faced Dalish when they saw one, and those that weren’t smart enough were deterred by Flissa. She was truly a saint. She left Lupa to her case files, and Lupa left a couple of punks alone that slipped pills between their foolish lips before taking shots. It wasn’t an upstanding bar, but it certainly sat in the green zone on legal threat levels. Lupa liked to relax there to keep mobsters and the like away from it. Nothing spelled out ‘Keep away, Mob,’ like a cop having a solid presence in the area.

            “You look like someone pissed in your cheerios.” Lupa glanced up at the familiar voice, and she motioned to the seat across from her when she saw who it was. Sera was an odd ball of a girl with uneven bangs and a crooked smile. She was also as sharp as a tack and as painful as a lego under a bare foot when she wanted to be. Lupa wasn’t sure if Sera’s slapdash plaid leggings and overly baggy t-shirt was a fashion statement, or she’d just woken up like that –could have been a mix of both, in truth. Sera hopped onto the bench and peeked over at the case files, pouting when Lupa closed the folder.

            “Do you have the information?” Lupa asked, looking around the room to ensure that no one was slinking closer to eavesdrop.

            “Why do you always act so serious when things like this come up, eh? You want information on the down low, I got you the information on the low. Doesn’t look so low though if you’ve got a stick up your ass.”

            “What do you have for me, then?” Lupa accepted a small camera that was slid across the table, and she turned the dial to study the different photos. “You’re an excellent shot with a camera.”

            “That’s not the only thing I’m good at shooting.” Sera made a gun motion with her fingers, pretended to be dead, and she snickered.

            “I didn’t hear that,” Lupa murmured, pausing on the picture of an elf. “Who is this?”

            “That’s Briala, one of Felassan’s best friends. He mentors her a bit, like he’s grooming her up for something.”

            “That’s the Briala that…” Lupa’s eyebrows rose to her hairline.

            “Yeah, that’s the one. Her and the Empress, you know? Not so Elfy as you are, but Elfy enough. She goes on about elf rights and the like and says we’re second class citizens or something or other. It’s the rich that keep us as second class citizens, not our ears.” Lupa had heard of Briala, though only through chain of command and rank. She was a personal spy for the Empress, but she daylighted as some form of lady-in-waiting. It wasn’t like she put ‘spy’ on her resume. Nobility was bold, but they weren’t _that_ bold.

            “She works with Felassan, then? That is risky to have ties to Fen’Harel _and_ Empress Celene.”

            “It’s pretty lowkey, but you know all about the rich getting free passes. Felassan’s been to court like he _knows_ all about it, and Briala’s been working with him a bit. She was slinking around town the night your lady friend died.”

            “Is she good with poisons?”

            “Oh, she’s _good_. You know that fancy-pants that tried to kill the Empress and killed almost her entire house staff? Briala got her good and clean, and no one but nobodies know about it.” Sera grabbed a toothpick and rolled it around her fingers, studying it. “Kills the whole house staff, and not one wink of sadness from no one but those of us smart enough to know we’d be just as easily doxed off.”

            “If no one knows of it, how do you know she did it?”

            “Because people think my ears make me part of her channel or something.” Sera scoffed and bounced a little in her seat, nose scrunched. “Right stupid it is, but I listen. She’s got this network of elves and what not, and they’ve some ties to Fen’Harel and his lot.”

            Lupa sat back in her chair and frowned at her empty cup of coffee. She took a drag of the impatient cigarette, and as she exhaled the smoke, she thought of the elusive elf and shook her head. She was just a detective –a Dalish detective, at that. If Briala and the empress were involved, just how deep was this? What clearance did she have to investigate further?

**Met my contact. Shit is getting thick.**

            She idly sent the text to Leliana, pursing her lips and looking out across the steadily growing crowd of bar rats. Across from her, Sera grinned a shit-eating grin.

            “You’ve got the face of someone whose thong is up their ass a bit too high,” she joked, reaching across to poke Lupa’s arm.

            “I’ve got the face of someone who needs to catch up on some sleep.” Lupa stood up, reaching into her wallet and tossing a few bills down. “I appreciate the intel, Sera. Your check will be sent out next week, same as always.”

            “You make me feel right proper, getting checks and all. I should send you a thank you card.”

            “Last time you sent a thank you, it was spray-painted onto the wall of my apartment. I’d rather not.” Lupa smiled all the same. Sera was tricky, but she had a good heart. She was one of the few contacts that Lupa didn’t mind bending the law a bit for.

            “Who knows? Maybe I’ll leave a dead rat on your doorstep.”

            “The only rat I’d like dead on my doorstep is a little too far out of my reach,” Lupa replied, thinking of the elusive mobster.

            “Not too far from my scope, though.” Sera’s grin was too big to be casual. That was grey-territory talk right there, and Lupa let out a warning noise before shaking her head and walking away. According to the books, Sera was a street rat that gave good intel. According to those with proper clearance, Sera was a freelancing assassin for the Red Jennies, a group far too out of the reach of the law due to their disorganized yet efficient manner of never being near the scene of the crime.

            Lupa stepped out into the cool evening air, taking another drag off of the cigarette and holding it for a moment. She tucked her files into her jacket and started down the sidewalk, jamming her hands into her pockets. She exhaled, smoke billowing about her face, and she crossed a crosswalk, eyes intent on her destination –home.

It wasn’t long before she noticed the car keeping pace with her. It wasn’t bragging rights to notice, since the black, non-descript car wasn’t trying to be slick. When she reached the corner at the end of the block, she gritted her teeth and turned, hand on the pistol that she kept with her at all times. She stared at the black tinted windows and bit down on the cigarette, scowling.

            A man stepped out from the passenger side and walked to the back, opening the door with quick, efficient motions. Dalish, by the looks of him, and he gave her a sidelong glance as he stepped away. He knew her; that was certain.

            “Evening,” Lupa said pleasantly, although she didn’t feel pleasant. Cops could get killed for the slightest of inconvenience in Val-Royeaux, and most people didn’t bat an eye. Her phone vibrated –most likely Leliana. She idly wondered if she’d have time to text for backup.

            “You always look so cross, Miss Lavellan.” Lupa would have recognized his voice anywhere. It was smooth, low and controlled with a dash of confidence. Solas of the Fen’Harel family stepped out from the car and stood, adjusting his suit that was tailored to every curve of his body. His shoes were spotless, shined with an oil that smelled of herbs, and the cufflinks on his shirt cuffs glinted underneath the bright lamplight. He looked down at her and smiled faintly, as though they were vague acquaintances.

            “If you’re going to kill me, this is a bad place to do it,” Lupa said, casting her gaze around the empty streets. A bluff if there ever was one. She spat out her cigarette and crushed it underneath her boot.

            “You’d like that, I think. A blatant murder of one of Val-Royeaux’s finest would surely put me behind bars for the rest of my life.” Fen’Harel nodded to the Dalish man, and he closed the car door, stepping off to the side to wait for further command.

            “When you’re not bribing officials, murdering witnesses, and intimidating lawyers, yes. That would be the final straw, I think.” Lupa took a step back, shifting her stance. He noted the movement with clear grey eyes, and he shook his head.

            “Is that an accusation?”

            “Merely stating a fact,” she replied sourly.

            “Are you fishing for a confession, Miss Lavellan?” He looked faintly amused, and he cast his gaze about the street.

            “I wouldn’t do you the dishonor of thinking you’re that stupid. If you don’t mind, I’m leaving.” It never looked good to have a conversation with a mob boss –it looked even worse as a cop. The few times they’d exchanged words had surrounded his ‘family’ getting caught for petty crimes or the occasional felony. Most of Lupa’s words surrounded a fresh use of ‘fuck’ and ‘you’, while Solas’ words were gravely polite, if not casually condescending.

            “I’d like to speak with you, if you don’t mind.” He noted her movements to leave, and he held up a hand.

            “I mind,” she said, and she took another step back. Her phone buzzed again –Leliana either had something, or she was worried.

            “Then I’d like to speak with you, whether you mind or not. I’d have approached you in the tavern, but I supposed that I wouldn’t be welcome there.” Another verbal gut punch. Lupa and Leliana had bailed Flissa out of some trouble with the mob and some dirty loans years back, and it was with the understanding that no one from the Fen’Harel family could enter the bar. Understanding. As though a verbal agreement would truly stop Fen’Harel if he wanted to go somewhere.

            “I have nothing to say to you, Fen’Harel,” Lupa snapped.

            “Please, I insist that you call me Solas. I will walk with you.” He took three long strides to her, and when she moved to step away, he grabbed her arm lightly. “An evening stroll is just what we need.”

            “Are you threatening me?” Lupa asked, glancing down at her arm. Her blood ran cold, and all she could imagine was the headlines that would be written if she was brought down so easily.

            “I’m insisting that we speak. Your mind jumps to dramatic places, Miss Lavellan.” He linked their arms and turned, leading her down the street and away from his car. When the guard tried to follow, Solas gestured back with his free hand, motioning for him to stay.

            “If you-”

            “There. I have removed my guard, and my car remains behind. All that is left is you, me, and the evening air.”

            “What do you want,” Lupa ground out. Her fingers twitched with the urge to assault him.

            “I have studied you, Miss Lavellan. We have run in similar circles for quite some time, although you tend to claim a higher moral ground than myself. When one is constantly being attacked, one tends to look for reasons behind the attack. You come from the Free Marches, although you are no Free Marcher. A Dalish of Clan Lavellan, one of the few nomadic people left in all of Thedas.”

            “So you did your research,” Lupa replied, pretending that his knowledge of her didn’t make chills run down her spine.

            “You joined the force young, and you transferred to Val-Royeaux, for seemingly noble reasons. In the five years you’ve been here, four of those have been spent specifically within organized crime –that is, what you claim is organized crime. Innocent until proven guilty, and I have been proven innocent many, many times.” The cadence of his voice was smooth, as though he was reading her story from a book instead of from memory. They turned a corner, his car and guard disappearing, and Lupa tensed. Solas wasn’t the father of the Fen’Harel family because he was the oldest. It was because he was the deadliest.

            “What’s your point?”

            “My point, Miss Lavellan, is that I’ve done my research. You are a smart, tenacious detective, but you seem to fail to realize that you’re fighting a battle that you can’t win. After the death of Mrs. Hawthorne, surely you can see that?”

            “You’re treading into dangerous waters, _Solas_. I suggest you quit while you’re ahead.”

            “Yes, someone told me you had a temper, too.” Somehow, it didn’t sound as though he was trying to insult her. If anything, it was like hearing someone recall a distant memory or fact. “You once broke a man’s jaw during an arrest.”

            “Did you hear about him almost killing my partner first?” Lupa snapped.

            “Yes, he shot twice, and you broke his jaw. A good right hook,” he said pleasantly.

            “I’ve a hankering to try my hand at it again,” Lupa replied.

            “You won’t. That is the difference, you see, between you and most officers. Police brutality and hypocrisy run amok, and through it all you are the golden girl. The one who can’t be bought.”

            “Then why are you trying?” She demanded, planting her hands on her hips. He chuckled, and it struck her as odd that a sound like that would come at a time like this. He looked across the empty street, and his gaze focused something far away.

            “I’m not. You see, what I am trying to do is inform you that we are actually on the same side.”

            “The same side,” Lupa repeated flatly.

            “Yes, although you would swear otherwise.”

            “I’m on the side of people like Mrs. Hawthorne; people you order hits on as easily as I breathe.”

            “I have done no such thing,” Solas replied.

            “You had someone order the hit, then. Briala was more than happy to oblige,” Lupa growled.

            “Accusing a lady-in-waiting of the court is a dangerous thing, Detective Lavellan. I’ll pretend that I didn’t hear it.”

            “Do what you will; it’s what you always do, yes?” Lupa’s fingers itched with the desire to lunge at him, but she held herself back. Her phone buzzed again, and she sent a silent plea to Leliana to search for her. She crammed her hands into her jacket pockets and gripped the phone tightly.

            “I do what is necessary,” Solas stated, and he turned to stare down at her once more. “What is necessary now is to warn you.”

            “Warn me,” Lupa repeated.

            “Yes, a warning for a friend that shares the same side as myself, though she wouldn’t see it.” His lip twitched into a smile. “There is much coming, and I fear your involvement will only make things worse. Mr. Hawthorne’s untimely death may appear gruesome to you, but there is a much larger picture that you fail to see because you have narrowed your vision only to me.”

            “And all this time, you haven’t actually been running a mob. Instead, you’re going to tell me that you’ve been running a charity.”

            “I have never once admitted to organized, crime-like activity. There you are again, accusing me.” He sighed and looked up at the sky, the smog of industry blocking out many of the stars.

            “I’m going to put you behind bars, Solas.”

            “In the meantime, I’m going to be watching you closely. I have many friends in many places. In fact, you share close acquaintance with quite a few of them.” There he was, laughing at her again. Lupa gripped the phone tightly and clenched her jaw.

            “Money buys compliance, but in the end it will all trace back to you,” she vowed.

            “When it does, you’ll find yourself wondering why you ever doubted me.” He extended his hand, but Lupa didn’t take it.

            “You may leave now,” she said.

            “Yes, I’d imagine that Detective Nightingale is on her way to find you.” Solas lowered his hand and clasped them behind his back. “She is a peculiar sort of partner for one such as yourself to have.”

            “Don’t,” Lupa warned.

            “It is only an observation. You follow your rules so religiously. For one of the cloth as she once was, she certainly took to the shadows of your work as a fish to water. She dances the fine line remarkably well.”

            “Whatever it is that you’re trying to imply-”

            “I’ve implied nothing.” He turned and began walking away from her, a sway to his step that was animalistic. “Good evening, Detective Lavellan. Thank you for making this evening so enjoyable.”

            “Wait,” Lupa called out, and he stopped at the corner where the lamplight gave him a striking silhouette.

            “Yes?”

            “What’s happening on Saturday?” He tilted his head and considered her, and if she could see better, she’d have sworn he was smiling.

            “A clever question to a subtle clue. It seems to me an unremarkable day. If I was to guess, however; I would suggest not straying too close to your home on that day. Take a walk, Detective. Get some fresh air.”

            He strode down the sidewalk, leaving her with clammy palms and a racing heart.

            “Fuck,” she hissed, and she slammed her palm to her chest a good few times, trying to calm it. Her free hand fumbled for her phone, and she blinked at the bright screen, tapping it frantically. Multiple missed texts and a missed call.

            “Fuck,” she stated, and she shakily dialed Leliana back, turning and pacing down the sidewalk with a frenzy in her step. Her partner answered immediately.

            “Where the hell are you?” Leliana demanded.

            “On the corner of Le Bleu and third,” Lupa replied. When Leliana didn’t answer, she hung up and turned, kicking the wall of some establishment or other.

            “Fuck,” she declared, jamming her phone back into her pocket.

            Leliana screeched into view not two minutes later, slamming on the breaks in front of Lupa. Lupa climbed into the passenger seat and Leliana sped off angrily.

            “Thanks,” Lupa said, buckling up.

            “When you send a text to me and I respond, I expect an answer rather quickly,” Leliana replied curtly.

            “I would have if I could,” Lupa said, slapping her chest again for good measure. Her palms were still clammy.

            “When you don’t respond after, it had better mean that you were in legitimate danger.”

            “I was.”

            “Oh? Too much to drink?” Leliana glanced over long enough to scowl. Beneath the anger though, there was genuine worry.

            “Solas paid me a visit outside of the pub, Leliana.”

            That certainly quieted her. Leliana’s lips pressed together tightly, and she glared at the road in front of them, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. It was common for Fen’Harel to visit cops sooner or later, but it had been a longstanding joke among 9:41 that Lupa was _too good_ for him to even bother with her.

            “Something must be coming if he is stooping low enough to attempt to buy you off,” she said after a moment of furious silence.

            “He claims that we are on the same side, and I should stop prying.”

            “I’d check your bank account after a declaration like that.”

            “I won’t take a bribe, Leliana.”

            “Neither would I, but it will be interesting to see just how much you’re worth to him for him to approach you like that in the middle of the night.” They were quiet after that, mulling things over in their minds. Lupa considered a cigarette, but she quickly stamped the idea down. Her mind was racing enough as it was. She was wide awake and didn’t need any help staying that way.

            “Sera informed me that Briala was sneaking about town the night of Mrs. Hawthorne’s murder,” Lupa said when they reached the other side of town.

            “Briala is a high-ranking diplomat,” Leliana replied.

            “And potentially our murderer.”

            “If she is, we’ll never get her behind bars, Lupa. You don’t know the Great Game as I do, but if Briala is involved this at all, we can’t touch her.”

            “I don’t know the ‘Great Game’ like you do, and even I know that if she’s involved, she’s untouchable.” Lupa let out a groan and pressed her palms to her eyes, pushing until stars exploded in her vision.

            “Has the toxicology report come in?”

            “Dorian is running tests on every single poison possible.”

            “At the very least, we can narrow down the suspects to her. Although that aids us nothing in prosecuting her, at least we’ll know.” Leliana pulled to a stop in front of Lupa’s apartment, but she didn’t get out of the car. Solas’ warning about Saturday echoed in her head, and she hesitated for a long, drawn moment.

            “This is all something bigger than us, Leliana.”

            “Yes, and we are ill-equipped to handle it.” Leliana tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and frowned.

            “Felassan is a dangerous tool, but he is a tool none-the-less.” Lupa pulled the case files from her jacket and passed her hand over them. “If we can’t even get him, how can we get the others?”

            “They are like ants. Step on enough of the small ones, and the larger ones will come out to see. Work your way up the ant hill, and soon enough you’ll be able to step on the queen.”

            “Thanks for coming to get me,” Lupa said, opening the car door and stepping out.

            “I’m glad you’re alive,” Leliana said warmly. “And take Fen’Harel’s approach as a sign that you have finally gotten close enough to rattle him.”

            Lupa nodded and walked up to her apartment, scoping every area of the complex before finally allowing herself to go inside. Once inside, she gleaned over every window and door, checking for signs of a forced entry. No one crept in the shadows of her room, and no window had been pried open for a murderer to lurk about. Lupa locked herself in good and tight, and she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the casefiles beside her. Leliana could try and comfort her that Solas only spoke with her because she was a threat to him, but Lupa couldn’t be so vain. His approach hadn’t felt like he was cornered. If anything, his warning rang with truth.

            That was the trouble with truth, though. What is true for one person is not so true for another. Lupa’s truth of his guilt was only as strong as those that believed it as well. As long as others believed in the truth of Solas ‘standing for something great’ then she’d never be able to get him behind bars.

            Which was just as well. Lupa wanted to live long enough to see just what a Saturday from Fen’Harel felt like.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4:

            A Saturday morning from Fen’Harel looked like a gas leak and a major explosion.

            There were many times in Lupa’s life –even before joining the police academy –that Lupa considered not following warnings given well in advance. As was the custom of the nomadic Dalish, the Keeper was the leader of the group and gave enough wisdom and warning to keep her people safe. Once, Keeper Deshanna warned Lupa several times about the dangers of going into the forests alone. The Dalish traveled in wilderness country, and many a bone had been broken in Lupa’s quest for autonomy and adventure. She’d once been warned of the dangers of eating a meal that was potentially spoiled, and only after three days of profuse vomiting had she learned to maybe trust others when they said not to do something.

            She wasn’t quite sure what took her out of her house at seven in the morning, but Lupa found herself wandering the parks of Val-Royeaux on her day off, trying to scratch an itch that she couldn’t truly reach. She had lunch with Dorian, she responded to a few e-mails from her relatives back home, and she followed a pickpocket for three blocks before she apprehended him and returned the stolen items. All in all, a good day.

            That is, until she reached her apartment complex just in time to watch it blow up.

            It was like the scene of a movie. Lupa turned a corner three blocks away, and she looked to the distance just in time to watch the entire floor explode. There was a ripple of energy, then **boom**. The noise alone dropped her to her knees, hands clasped over sensitive ears that rang with a fury. The wave of heat was powerful enough to roll over her after less than a minute, and the crackle of fire pierced the air with a vengeance. Stunned, Lupa stumbled to her feet and looked towards the wreckage. All that she could see was the people.

            The people.

            Furious, she grabbed her phone and dialed a number, racing towards the scene. Cars lay crushed beneath the debris, and cries of the injured or frightened reached out to her ringing ears.

            “Yes, this is Detective Lavellan of Precinct 9:41. There’s been an explosion off of Styner and Montil, and there are numerous injured. Send immediate ambulance teams as well as firefighters and backup.”

            “Where is your status, detective?”

            “I’m a block away on 4th Avenue and heading to the scene. I will try to stabilize who I can.”

            “Don’t enter the vicinity until backup has arrived, detective Lavellan. Help is on the way.”

            “Get ahold of Captain Pentaghast; she’ll need to see this.” Lupa hung up and sprinted to the scene, moving past uninjured onlookers whose eyes were as wide as saucers. Be damned what the operator said; people needed help.

            Sirens wailed in the distance, and the sound of firefighter’s vehicles rushing to the scene comforted her as Lupa knelt by a still body and felt for a pulse. There was none. The body lay in a macabre position, eyes wide and mouth lax. The next was still alive, and Lupa made a tourniquet for their arm from her belt, soothing them with words in the Elvish language. The victim whimpered, cried, and clasped her hand with the hand still attached to their body, the color gone from their lips.

            Paramedics arrived; Lupa left the victim and moved on to those that were merely bruised up rather than seriously harmed. She herded those able to move and grouped them on the sidewalk, assuring them of their safety. One woman clasped her on the shoulder and wouldn’t let go, crying for her husband whose body was unaccounted for. Lupa pried herself from the claw-like grasp and continued to look for those not seriously injured.

            The firefighters arrived next, followed by police whose job was to scrounge up survivors and help them to the paramedics. The moment those in uniform arrived, Lupa stood back to allow them to work, her gaze drawn to the fire that raged from the floor that she lived on. She assured a young upstart that she was fine, flashed her badge, and moved about the block at a safe distance, looking for anyone else among the wreckage. Time passed; it swayed and dipped, and Lupa had trouble connecting the time between seconds as she took everything in. Her heart thundered, and her ears muffled the sound of her heavy, furious breathing.

            “Lupa,” someone called, and she turned after a beat to accept a fierce hug from Leliana, the woman’s frame wrapping around her. Lupa returned the embrace, furious to feel her hands shaky as she clasped them between Leliana’s shoulders.

            “That bastard,” Lupa forced from clenched teeth.

            “You’re safe,” Leliana breathed, and she kissed Lupa on the forehead, letting go long enough to clasp her shoulders. “You’re safe.”

            “That bastard,” Lupa repeated, and she felt a cold nausea settle into her guts.

            “Ma’am, we’re going to ask you to step away from the area. We have a station where our medics can ensure that you’re well.” Lupa looked at the man that stood a safe distance from her, and she growled.

            “I’m Detective Lavellan, and you’re not grouping me with the civilians. That was my apartment,” Lupa snapped. The cop paused, considered her, then dipped his head.

            “My apologies, detective. Is…” his eyes cut to Leliana.

            “I’m Detective Nightingale. You’re not of Precinct 9:41, are you?”

            “Precinct 9:36, detective. They called it in and requested backup.” He looked to the place where firefighters struggled with the blaze, and he clenched his jaw. “I’ve never seen this before.”

            “Welcome to Val-Royeaux, officer. What’s your name?”

            “Blackwall. Corporal Blackwall, at your service.” He was a somber, gristly looking officer, though clean-shaven. “Let me know if there is anything I can do for you.”

            “Continue looking for civilians among the wreckage,” Lupa said, and she scanned the crowd of sharp blue uniforms, searching. When she spotted a white shirt, she broke away and jogged to the woman barking orders, men and women scurrying about to do as she demanded.

            “I want to know who, what, when, where, and how many. What’s the body count? Are the hospitals prepped for this? What’s the status of the fire? Give me answers!” Lupa cut through the throng of suits and stood before Captain Cassandra Pentaghast, saluting once the woman noted their presence.

            “Captain, I was the first on the scene,” Lupa said, and Cassandra grabbed her arm, gripping it tightly.

            “You have a god damn reason why your apartment is in the middle of this mess, Lavellan?” Cassandra demanded.

            “That’s a code Sierra Foxtrot, captain,” Lupa replied.

            “You…” Cassandra’s eyes cut to the fire that was meticulously being contained, and she balked. “You mean to tell me that son-of-a-bitch did this?”

            “No concrete proof. That’s his forte, as you know,” Leliana said behind her. Her presence was a balm, and Lupa relished in the support.

            “You weren’t caught in it, though. You’re not dead,” Cassandra said bluntly.

            “I was taking a walk in the park,” Lupa replied. A chill crawled down her back.

            _Only because he told you to avoid your apartment_.

            “That’s lucky. I want you to get cleared with the paramedics, then start a report.”

            “I want to help out with the civilians, captain. I lived with these people. I have to…I have to do something.” Cassandra’s eyes narrowed, and she shook her head.

            “I don’t want you anywhere near them right now. If what you’re saying is true, I want you out of the public as soon as possible.”

            “But I-”

            “Come on, Lupa. Let’s get you to the station.” Leliana grabbed her arm gently, and with a curt dismissal, Lupa was led away to Leliana’s car that waited just outside of the police line.

            “I want to help!” Lupa hissed as Leliana opened the car door.

            “The best way is to get out of the public eye. You know what this was. Half of the cops on scene are in his pocket, and I don’t want them seeing you there. If you stay, you’ll either get pinned for this, hounded by the reporters, or forced into the paperwork.”

            Lupa didn’t want to sit. She didn’t want to think. She didn’t want to sit _and_ think during the long, roundabout way to the precinct. Her hands shakily grasped at her cigarettes, and she lit one, clamping down and taking a long, uneven drag. Leliana had enough grace to unroll the window without chastising her.

            “I’m going to go into shock,” Lupa said, and Leliana nodded.

            “Yes, I know.”

            “I don’t _want_ to go into shock,” Lupa added on.

            “You need to take slow, even breaths, and I’m going to help you through the shock,” Leliana replied. Lupa nodded, but it was a mechanical thing because she wasn’t truly focusing on agreeing with Leliana; her mind was too busy focusing on the dead bodies. There were so many dead bodies.

            She’d caused every single one.

            “Come on,” Leliana urged her from the car, and Lupa was surprised to realize that it’d stopped moving. When had it stopped moving? She winced as the cigarette burned her, and she realized she’d been holding it but doing nothing. She dropped and crushed it beneath her boot, fingers singed but fine enough. Far finer than her apartment, at least. Lupa let out a shaky, warbling breath, and a blanket was dropped around her shoulders.

            “I don’t need that,” Lupa said, shrugging it off.

            “Your hands are cold,” Leliana said.

            “That bastard blew up my apartment, Leliana.”

            “Do you want some coffee?” Lupa found herself eased onto a swivel chair, her feet propped up onto Leliana’s desk.

            “He blew it up, and it took out the entire complex.”

            “I’m going to call Dorian and get a few things done. I’ll get your coffee, too.” Leliana briskly strode from the office, and Lupa’s cold fingers grabbed for her phone, scrolling through a few apps. After multiple curses, some fumbled mistyping of her blasted password, and an app crash, her bank account balance sat displayed before her.

            Nothing.

            Disgusted, Lupa tossed her phone onto the desk by her feet, clamping her arms under her armpits. Areas like that were good for warming the extremities, as she’d learned in survival camp. It didn’t stop the chill that worked its way up her spine until it grasped the nerves at the base of her neck and paralyzed her, though.

            “They’ve only got a vanilla creamer, but there you are.” Leliana sat the coffee down and dragged a chair beside Lupa’s, sitting down. Lupa wordlessly took the cup and held it, warming her cold hands, her eyes pinned to her phone.

            “I’ve got no balance change in my bank,” she said.

            “None?” Leliana’s eyebrows rose.

            “Same balance as before.” She kicked at her phone with her boot, and Leliana grabbed it, studying her account with little regard to privacy.

            “You’ve a lot of auto-pays that are about to come out,” she said.

            “I’ve got a decimated apartment and a lot of auto-pays.”

            “He’s not trying to buy you.”

            “Just a blatant threat, then.” She sighed and took a long drink of the coffee, relishing in how it burned. It jostled her limbs and woke her from the fog that was clouding her gaze. “We didn’t even win this case, Leliana. He got both of the Hawthornes, and Felassan walked.”

            “I have some contacts that may be able to-”

            “No,” Lupa snapped.

            “You may ignore their use, but I can’t stand idly by while your life is threatened like this.” Leliana flipped open her phone and scrolled through her contacts.

            “Captain won’t like this.”

            “Cassandra and I have a perfect understanding of our strengths being utilized to achieve our ends,” Leliana said evenly.

            Lupa’s phone buzzed, and she grabbed it to reply to a concerned text from Dorian. Yes, she was alive, yes she was unharmed. Yes, they would meet and discuss a course of action. She finished the cup of coffee and crushed it, tossing it into the trash can. She opened the bank app again and scrolled through it, but it wasn’t a balance change that caught her eye. The small alert icon at the top of the screen pinged quite suddenly, and she clicked it, confused.

            _Alert! A note has been made in your account preferences._

Lupa glanced over to Leliana, her partner a few paces away with her phone pressed to her ear. Lupa bit her lip, glanced back to the phone, then pulled up her account preferences, frowning.

            _As of Saturday, 4:34 P.M., a preference has been added to your account that enables you to directly contact a budget representative. Contact by phone between 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M. at 209-XXX-XXXX_

“What,” Lupa muttered, clicking the highlighted number. It dialed out, and she lifted the phone to her ear, leaning back in the chair. After three rings, it picked up.

            “Hello?” Lupa asked when no one immediately spoke on the line. Silence. After a second, the call dropped. Two seconds later, her phone buzzed with a text.

**Do not save this number.**

            “Yes, have them stop by the precinct when they’re done,” Leliana said on the phone, walking by Lupa and grabbing a notepad. Lupa swallowed heavily and dragged her fingers along the keyboard, barely acknowledging her partner squeezing her shoulder as she passed.

**Who’d you buy off to access bank accounts, let alone hack apps?**

            “Tell Marjolaine that she owes me back from ten years ago. She’ll know exactly what I speak of.”

**That is a poor way to fish for a confession, Detective Lavellan.**

“Fuck,” Lupa murmured. She covered her mouth, as though the word made what was happening actually, truly real.

**Do not save these messages, either.**

            “If I have to get a hold of Enasalin, I’ll do it. She will gladly –ah, you catch my meaning. Good.”

**You tried to kill me.**

            She tapped the send button and drummed her fingers on her thigh. As an afterthought, she added:

**You killed at least seven people and injured many others.**

“Yes, Zev? It’s good to hear your voice. I have a favor I want to ask of you, if you’ve any way to come to Orlais.”

            No answer. Lupa chewed on her lip and scowled at the text screen, heart hammering. Leliana’s voice faded as she strode down the hall, and Lupa took that opportunity to light a cigarette, tossing her phone onto the desk and staring up at the ceiling. Seven dead –that she saw. Under twenty but over ten injured. That didn’t include those inside the complex, those whose homes were obliterated and decimated by the bomb. Blood on his hands, and the bastard sent a text? He’d gotten her attention; now he was just being a manipulative ass.

            The phone buzzed. Lupa lurched in her chair and grabbed it, biting down on the cigarette.

**I saved your life.**

Well. She stood then, gripping the phone tightly, and considered throwing it against the wall. But no –she needed it. A few well-placed fuck’s and you’s crossed her mind for a reply, but she was saved from having to delete them with Leliana walking back into the room, tucking her phone into her pocket.

            “We’re going to get to the bottom of this. I have a few old friends coming from Antiva and Ferelden that can move around undetected.”

            “You’re using spies and thugs to go where you can’t,” Lupa retorted. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you mention Marjolaine.”

            “Your apartment was just blown up not one hour ago by the very elf you’ve been dogging for the past few years to throw behind bars. We’ve been doing things your way for awhile, but clearly it’s not working.”

            “My way is the law’s way, Leliana.”

            “Yes, and the law is only as good as the people paid to uphold it.” She raised a hand when Lupa opened her mouth. “There’s no sense in arguing. You use a Red Jenny for your information, and she’s even on government payroll for it.”

            “Yeah, but she-” but she what? Lupa frowned at the victorious expression in Leliana’s eyes. There was no difference, really, apart from Lupa not having some sort of sordid past with her contact. She considered showing Leliana the texts, but as she went to lift the phone, her grip on it tightened and she found herself tucking it into her pocket instead. Lupa looked away, towards the sound of doors slamming and harried voices shouting. Some of the officers had arrived to start on reports or begin damage control.

            “Fine,” she grumbled. “You do it your way.”

            “You’re staying at my house this evening,” Leliana said by way of reply.

            “You didn’t have an option in that. Mine is…” she took a drag of the cigarette and exhaled, closing her eyes.

            “We’ll get him,” Leliana vowed, and the conviction in her voice was real. Lupa snorted and flicked ash into the trash can, following her partner out before she could get cornered into beginning reports on the incident.

* * *

 

            “I saved your life,” Lupa murmured much later. She sat on the couch in Leliana’s living room, the television buzzing quietly before her with cheap reality shows. For quite a while, it’d been a constant loop of her neighborhood, showing all of the angles in which the proud, beautiful building had come crashing down. Worried friends and family got fifteen minutes of fame as they wept for the injured or dead. Others balked under the camera’s eye and hurried away from it. Above all, the same repeating loop of a camera swiveling along the neighborhood and pausing at the police that refused to let anyone cross the safety line.

            Thirteen dead elves, four dead humans, two dwarves and a qunari. Total injured was twenty-seven, twenty-six elves and one qunari. Some died in the hospital, some died at the scene. Some died along the way. One reporter informed viewers that the timing was horrendous, considering the Grand Divine from the Chantry was doing a peacekeeping visit to Orlais to celebrate the Chantry’s reform from centuries before. As if that would stop her from having a safe, pleasant trip. Leliana had retired to bed after that, muttering something under her breath about needing to sleep off the stupidity.

            Lupa passed her phone between her hands, the text glaring up at her angrily. I saved your life. There were plenty of ways to respond to that, most of them foul at best. Lupa scowled down at the phone and sighed, considering throwing it out of the window. No, best not. She criss-crossed her legs and bumped the remote, accidently changing the channel.

            “If you’re too stupid to see it, how can everyone else? The real problem is that it was an Elven neighborhood that was targeted, and no one is talking about it.” What? She glanced up at the late night loop of the report, but it was a fresh piece. A scared, harried looking elf stood beside the reporter with fire in her eyes, arms folded tightly across her chest.

            “You’re saying the criminal behind this was targeting elves?”

            “I’m saying that there have been some changes to outdated laws recently, and people have been protesting the rights that elves have fought for. Suddenly a bomb goes off and it’s an elven apartment complex?”

            “You don’t find that purely circumstantial?” the reporter asked.

            “You do?” Lupa bit her lip and considered the elf whose eyes were surrounded by fine lines and wrinkles. Overworked as some maid, most likely. Behind her, what appeared to be elven protestors and mourners had gathered, bundled up against the cool night air.

**Saving my life at the expense of others is a piss-poor way to try and get me on your side. You don’t frighten me.**

            She idly typed the message and bit her lip, finger hovering over the send button. Should she? By all accounts, she should be sharing this with Leliana, making a plan that ensured she played ‘The Great Game’ well enough to trap him. Perhaps tomorrow, when her mind didn’t feel so wrung-out and soggy. She hit send and laid down on the couch, turning the volume up.

            “What has brought you out here tonight?” The reporter had moved on. Apparently it wasn’t a strong enough hook for her to angle her report on the mistreatment of elves. That was a polar sort of conversation anyway. People like the Fen’Harel family made it a pain in the ass for people like Lupa to get jobs, since it was a common joke that all elves worked for lawbreakers and money launderers. People like Briala who seemed to advocate for elves but still curled up around her Empress when ordered were especially troublesome. Too many politics and not enough thought for the little people that were stepped on along the way. Sera had a better thought process in mind; stop stepping on the little guys.

            “My son is in the hospital; it doesn’t look good.” The woman was held by a younger girl, their eyes puffy from crying. Apparently that was a better angle. The reporter made sure to direct the camera to the innocent child’s face, getting a good lighting for the tear streaks.

            “We are here to mourn with you, miss. Did you live here together?”

**Oh, it’s not me that you should be frightened of, Detective Lavellan.**

“Just…the three of us…” Lupa scowled down at the message, grunting under her breath.

**Get to the point. I’m tired of jumping through your hoops.**

            Mind games were one thing –he was as good at those as he was dodging the law. When the woman on the TV broke down in tears, Lupa cursed under her breath and changed the channel, pausing on a cartoon and nodding in approval. Light, innocent fun was needed to unwind and destress. First one episode, then two; her eyes were just starting to creep closed when the phone on her chest buzzed, and she grabbed it, sitting up on the couch whose cushions liked to try and swallow her in the middle of the night if she tossed about too much.

**You are assuming that I was the one to plant the bomb, let alone instigate this.**

            “Fucker,” she muttered.

**This is where you tell me that you’re just an innocent bystander?**

She considered lighting a cigarette, then opposed the idea. She didn’t want to hear Leliana’s censure for her stinking up the upholstery. The phone buzzed and she tapped the screen with jittery fingers.

**No.**

            No. She could handle a few of those in a day, but not from him.

**?**

            Nothing. Five, ten, fifteen minutes later found her drumming her fingers on the coffee table, splayed back out on the couch and glancing to the phone every few seconds. Nothing. Just when she thought she was going to call in order to give him a piece of her mind, the phone buzzed.

**This is where I tell you that there may be certain people within your own government that wish to silence you on the case of Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne. I merely observed and warned.**

            That sent a chill down her back. There were many things Lupa was prepared to read, but the accusation that her own superiors wanted her head wasn’t one of them. The feeling passed, though. Truly.

**Liar.**

She snorted when there wasn’t an instant reply. Of course. He was just playing her, just riling her up to see how far he could push the lowly detective. Her superiors surely didn’t want her dead.

**Since you survived, you will find yourself under the scrutiny of many important people. You will see the truth from the lies soon enough.**

“Oh, please,” she muttered.

**Why bother saving me?**

            There was no reply to that. Lupa stewed on the couch for an hour before sleep finally took her, her body exhausted and her mind slowly but surely forcing rest upon her. A dreamless darkness took hold, something that made her muscles lax and her body curl far too needily into the dips of the couch. When she woke at 7 in the morning with Leliana setting a cup of coffee onto the end table, every muscle ached as though she’d run a marathon. Groggily, she sat up and supported her heavy head, surprised to see multiple text messages and missed calls. Friends and loved ones alike expressed their concern and relief, but it was the message beneath all of theirs that truly caught her eye and gripped her by the back of the neck.

**You’re of better use to me alive than dead.**


End file.
